Dear Universe: Thanks for the caffeine. I needed that.

Happy International Coffee Day! This post is from a few years back, but honestly there are just not enough ways to praise coffee. It deserves its own holiday. It probably deserves it’s own temple and worshippers lining up to give them money, but we don’t have Starbucks here on our little island. 

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Last night, I heard coughing. It sounded like it was coming from beneath me.*

*[No, of course not. The Hub wasn’t even home. Get your mind out of that gutter.]

I sat up, stumbled out of bed and straight into what the dog had just thrown up.**

**[Yes, obviously the Hub was away. It’s one of his superpowers. When someone at our house barfs, he’s usually in another city. Often another country. Frequently, another hemisphere…]

My children are grown. My grandchildren have their own parents on whom to barf. So what karmic imbalance dictates that I’m still being roused in the middle of the night?

At my age, 3:00 a.m. should be reserved for dignified adult activities, such as lying awake wondering why I walked into the kitchen yesterday and whether the thing I forgot to do in 1997 was important.

I actually used to think I was a night person. I thought it was a sign of a healthy, normal adult to stay up into the wee small hours and wake up the next morning feeling like something the cat spat out. Then I got pregnant, was told I had to give up coffee for the duration, and discovered I wasn’t a night person.  At all.***

***[This did not, BTW, have anything to do with natural childbirth. If God didn’t want us to have caffeine, She would not have given us espresso beans, chocolate, or Paris.]

And yes, I know. Today we have wellness influencers. They rise naturally at 5:00 a.m., drink twelve ounces of warm lemon water, journal about gratitude, do Pilates, meditate, plunge themselves into ice water, photograph their breakfast, and greet the sunrise with glowing skin and excellent core strength.

At 5:00 a.m., the only thing I would ever be grateful for is the person who brought me coffee and then tiptoed away. Preferably without making eye contact.

Coffee: proof that civilization was worth the trouble

Giving up caffeine during pregnancy meant some readjustment as my daily schedule fought a doomed battle against hormones.

I insisted everything was normal.

The Hub had his doubts.

Barb: I’m tapping into my natural body rhythms. After a hard of day of hunting and gathering, did our cave ancestors’ natural body rhythms tell them to stay up to catch the Late Show?

The Hub: Did their natural body rhythms tell them to faceplant in the roast mastodon every evening?

Then the baby was born. At first, the sleeping arrangements seemed easy. In fact, I remember asking a nurse in the hospital, “What time should I wake up the baby in the mornings?” Being a trained professional, she was able to control her hysterical laughter just long enough to assure me this would not be a problem.

There’s nothing like parenthood to put both ambition and sleep patterns in perspective. In the years B.C. (Before Childbirth) my ambitions included writing the Great American Novel, advancing to the top of my profession, and wearing a size 5 swimsuit. In the years A.D. (After Delivery), my life goals narrowed to scoring four hours of uninterrupted sleep, and also going into the bathroom ALL BY MYSELF, with no interruptions, until I was completely done with whatever I needed to accomplish in there. Even if it took more than thirty seconds flat.

People without small children call this “using the bathroom.”

Parents call it a spa day.

Evolution and Fatherhood

It isn’t that most fathers—the Hub included—don’t try to be supportive when their partners are nursing. At first, they find a job to do too, like bringing the baby to the mother, or staying awake supportively during the nursing. Soon, however, most fathers are so extraordinarily good at being supportive, they can do it without waking up at all. Next morning:

Father: Did the baby nurse a lot last night? Because I’m exhausted this morning from all that supportiveness.

Mother: If I could move, I’d be reaching for a blunt instrument. 

But it really isn’t the fathers’ fault. They’d like to help out, but evolution just isn’t on their side. Since the days of our cave ancestors, the fathers’ hormones have been telling them, “You’ve done your part. Now you need your rest so you can face sabre-tooth tigers, woolly mammoths, and a calendar invite titled ‘Quick Sync’ in the morning.”

Meanwhile, the cave mothers’ hormones are telling them, “Wake up! I heard a sneeze three caves over. And while you’re up, you might as well put out a clean tiger skin for the morning, beat a load of laundry against some rocks, and change the baby’s swaddling. And don’t forget that tomorrow is Bring Your Own Woolly Mammoth Day at school.”

Saying “YES” (and other life-threatening effects of caffeine denial)

I really tried to stay away from caffeine when I was nursing. By Child #4, I thought I was getting the hang of the whole sleep deprivation thing. Sure, little things slipped my mind occasionally, like the kids’ names and our address. And maybe I didn’t put the recycling out. For three months. I kept thinking I was going to get a chance to read those newspapers…*

*Remember newspapers? They were like social media except they arrived only once a day, didn’t know your browsing history, and kept trying to sell you the pair of shoes you’d already bought. 

And, okay—there was that time I ran the red light trying to get back to the bookstore which I had left without paying for my books because Child #3 had public bathroom anxiety and confided what was going to happen any second if we didn’t make it home in time.

But then I noticed something far more serious. I started to say yes. It took my kids about a nanosecond to catch on…

Child #1: Can I have this new blouse which we both know I’ll never be able to wear in public?

Barb: Yes.

Child #2: Can I take horseback-gymnastics-on-ice lessons?

Barb: Yes.

Child #3: Can I have a new puppy which will have to be walked every 20 minutes day and night?

Barb: “Where’s that coffee pot?”

Coffee in 2026

Of course, coffee itself has changed. Once upon a time, you ordered coffee.

Now you select the country of origin, altitude, roast profile, extraction method, milk species, foam density, cup size, temperature, number of shots, ethical philosophy, and possibly the bean’s preferred pronouns.

I don’t need my coffee to have tasting notes of elderflower, bergamot, toasted hazelnut, and the melancholy of a rainy afternoon in Copenhagen.

I need it to contain coffee.

Preferably enough coffee that when somebody says, “Can I ask you a quick question?” I don’t answer, “Apparently.”

We now have smart coffee makers, coffee subscriptions, mushroom coffee, protein coffee, adaptogenic coffee, coffee alternatives, and apps that will tell you exactly how badly you’re sleeping after drinking the coffee you needed because you slept badly.

But after all these years, my relationship with coffee remains beautifully uncomplicated. It has never asked me to accept cookies, enable notifications, upgrade to Premium, enter a six-digit verification code, or prove that I am a human.

Coffee asks only one thing: “Would you like another?”

And, unlike the caffeine-deprivation years, I still reply, “Yes!”

So Happy International Coffee Day to everyone who understands that coffee isn’t the answer to everything. Sometimes the answer is chocolate. Sometimes it’s Paris. Sometimes it’s caffeine and chocolate IN Paris.

But first? Yes, I’d like a coffee.